Envy
by FeelTheCold
Summary: When Fiona gazed at her daughter's appearance, in Cordelia, the greenness of her spirit, she saw herself as a young woman. Champagne locks of hair that descended down with such buoyance and grace, hazel eyes that gleamed with mischief, lips that curled forth in a combination of annoyance and excitement... One-shot. Rated M just because.


**Author's note: Prompts would be lovely. I need some more ideas for some one-shots like this. Enjoy.**

**I own nothing, unfortunately. **

**~oOoOoOo~**

_By the age of twenty, you know you're not going to be a rock star. By twenty-five, you know you're not going to be a dentist or any kind of professional. And by thirty, darkness starts moving in- you wonder if you're ever going to be fulfilled, let alone wealthy and successful. By thirty-five, you know, basically, what you're going to be doing for the rest of your life, and you become resigned to your fate…_

_…I mean, why do people live so long? What could be the difference between death at fifty-five and death at sixty-five or seventy-five or eighty-five? Those extra years… what benefit could they possibly have? Why do we go on living even though nothing new happens, nothing new is learned, and nothing new is transmitted? At fifty-five, your story's pretty much over._

Douglas Coupland said it best. Although the quote may not have been perfectly suited for Fiona's reputable life—lead in style and endured with such an amount of competence that it could have made the most adept of artists tremble; languishing and a raw appreciation for the waltz that Fiona had cavorted to, her melody saccharine and tender, possessing the caress of a thousand svelte fingers gliding along the contours of able-bodied flesh. Fiona had crooned to this song—a song sung with licentiousness and thirst—on her own, as well with the ensemble of countless companions; lovers at their finest, men interested in escorting Fiona for a lifetime—long enough to span over a duration of two lifetimes, even. She had it all—the physical allure, a dulcet voice that would descend a few octaves when she grew frustrated, lashing out in the worst of ways, yet it was such a fascinating representation to bear witness to—the image of perfection, even in a whirlwind of complex emotions; exasperation, remorse, angst… the warmth—good and bad—that could be brandished in just one facial expression. A curl of her lower lip, a bat of abundant eyelashes, the burnished polish of her ivory canines as they shone through an open-mouthed smile, even a kiss…

When you are young, you think that the old lament the deterioration of life because this makes it easier for them to die without regret. When you are old, you become impatient with the way in which the young applaud the most insignificant improvements … while remaining heedless of the world's barbarism. I don't say things have got worse; I merely say the young wouldn't notice if they had. The old times were good because then we were young, and ignorant of how ignorant the young can be.

Each time Fiona glanced at her daughter from across the room—whether they were chatting about trivial things, or quarreling, which was usually the case, nine times out of ten—she would catch a glimpse of her daughter's youth, the polished flesh that was bridged out across her high cheek bones—the cheek bones that her mother had passed down to her—and would find herself envying her daughter; the enthusiastic aura that encompassed Cordelia on any given day. Fiona craved the juvenescence that was evident on her daughter's face, illustrated—and highlighted—with the most precious of genes; a heredity that many a girl in today's society had been chasing after, obsessed with looking the part of the perfect woman, the woman that possessed no flaws; no blemishes that could be exploited and used against said young woman.

When Fiona gazed at her daughter's appearance, in Cordelia, the greenness of her spirit, she saw herself as a young woman. Champagne locks of hair that descended down with such buoyance and grace, hazel eyes that gleamed with mischief, lips that curled forth in a combination of annoyance and excitement.

Fiona envied her own daughter—flesh and blood—when she should have been proud of the girl, ecstatic that she'd made it this far in life.

Except, Cordelia had never made her mother proud. She'd never been the child who was exceptional; the progeny. Imagine Fiona's disappointment that, her daughter, the offspring of the Supreme, was nothing more than a Plain Jane—a simple soul.

Simple.

Cordelia should have grown up to have a taste for extravagant clothing and expensive heels. She should have been drawn to garish fabric and wealthy men. Fiona's daughter should have married the chief experience officer of a major company; if not for love, then for money.

Instead, Cordelia wedded—and bedded, to Fiona's disdain—a man that should have been standing outside of the god damn Home Depot. Hank was a loser. Fiona could smell the bullshit in his pockets, even if Cordelia couldn't. He reeked of bullshit.

Infertility surged through Cordelia's veins.

Imperfection.

Thank Christ he couldn't knock her daughter up.

Fiona was concentrating on her thoughts—thoughts that probably would have enraged her daughter had she been able to read her mother's mind—when she heard Cordelia's words, words that elicited a very derisive, very unladylike—un-Supremelike—snort from Fiona's lips, her respirations shallow, a condemning expression staking its claim upon Fiona's visage as she scrutinized her daughter purposefully.

If looks could kill, Cordelia would have died a thousand deaths.

"Why do you hate Hank? Are you attracted to him?" Cordelia questioned, her eyes suspicious, expecting a response from her mother; probably a negative one.

"Ugh! Jesus. Because, Delia, he reeks of bullshit. And I don't understand how you cannot see that," Fiona spat back at her daughter from across the bar-her words like nails, penetrating the ivory flesh that was stretched across her daughter's bones.

That was the end of that conversation.


End file.
